Priyanka sent us this article for publishing in time for Teacher’s Day (Sep 5) but we were as usual full up with other material. But this article is timely at any time! – The Editor.

“Of course she got good marks — her mum’s a teacher!”
“Careful, don’t fight with her — she’ll complain to her mother.”
“She must have it so easy!”

I grew up hearing these lines in Chennai classrooms, whispered with the same seriousness as cricket score updates. People seemed convinced that being a teacher’s child was like getting a lifetime pass to Marina Beach — unlimited access, no questions asked. Honestly? If that’s true, then my pass must have expired before I was born.

Two Roles, One Amma

At home in our Anna Nagar flat, she was Amma. At school, she was “Miss”. And heaven forbid if I got confused about which role she was playing. I still remember one afternoon when I ran home, flung my bag onto the sofa, and yelled, “Teacher! Teacher!” Amma froze, gave me The Look, and for a moment I thought she would make me write ‘I will not forget this is home’ fifty times before dinner.

Easy Marks? You Must Be Joking

People assumed my report card was hand-written in Amma’s neat cursive, with glowing comments like “Excellent child”. The truth was more like: “Careless mistakes. Needs to focus.” Amma was so determined not to favour me that she became stricter with me than anyone else. My friends, who saw her scolding me in class, would whisper, “Machan, poor thing, da. Your life must be tough.” Their sympathy was so genuine, I sometimes expected them to sneak me a samosa from the school canteen.

The Extra Pair of ­Spectacles

If Amma wasn’t watching, the other teachers were. In our school corridors, it felt like I was carrying an invisible CCTV camera on my forehead. Once, when I giggled at a silly doodle my friend made of a donkey wearing a veshti, a teacher swooped down and scolded me: “How can you behave like this, when your mother is here?” Seriously? In Chennai, even the auto drivers at the stand near school had more freedom of expression than I did!

Friendships and the ­Ceilings of Anna Nagar

The real challenge was in school break-time conversations. Chennai students are experts at rating teachers — like IPL players: “That Maths Sir is like Dhoni, strict but cool. But that Chemistry Miss — ayyo, don’t even ask.” When such conversations started, I would suddenly find the school ceiling tiles deeply fascinating. Join in the gossip, and I risked being branded a traitor. Stay silent, and I became “boring”! Either way, I was stuck, like trying to choose between hot idli and soggy pongal at 7 am.

Parent-Teacher Meeting? Daily Episode

Other students dreaded Parent-Teacher Meetings. Me? I had them every day. Over breakfast: “Why didn’t you submit homework?” At lunch: “Why were you talking in class?” Even during a power cut in the Chennai summer, with the whole family fanning themselves in the hall, she would find a way to say, “And tomorrow, keep your shoes polished.” No escape. My life was essentially a live serial — Big Boss: Teacher’s Child Edition — but without Kamal Haasan to rescue me.

Looking Back with ­Laughter

Chennai traffic has taught us patience, and being a teacher’s child taught me discipline — with double servings. It wasn’t easy, but it gave me resilience, the ability to laugh at myself, and a sharp sense of irony.

So, do teachers’ children have it easy? No chance. We don’t get away with anything. We study hard, follow every rule, and do all this while everyone else assumes we are secretly sipping filter coffee during exams.

And yes, sometimes even now, I slip and call her “Teacher” instead of “Amma”. She laughs these days. But somewhere in the corner of my mind, I still wonder if she’s going to write a remark in red ink.